of champagne and shenanigans
by quorra laraex
Summary: He's just the underdog who finally got the girl.


**note: **written for Mimi.

* * *

**of champagne and shenanigans**

* * *

**x**

He sees her first.

She's Marguerite Marie.

Lights dance off her face in patterned movements, highlighting all her striking features at different times with multicoloured hues. By six minutes of absent staring, he's pieced her together entirely. The girl looks like she waltzed straight out of a fairytale with her pearly smile and her long locks. She's lighting up the whole damn room and it almost hurts to look at her. It's like staring right into the sun – the way eyes feel as if they are burning right out of its sockets, but it's undeniably gorgeous, so he doesn't mind.

His mind doesn't leave her, even when his gaze is forced to shift elsewhere when a fan had asked to take a picture with him. Typical smile and a typical pose that included his arm around the lower portion of the girl's back, hand resting on her hip and _flash_. Over with.

Eyes move back to the girl, who's taking a sip of red wine, matching the stain of her lips. He wonders what she's doing here, on the rooftop of grand building in San Francisco on the thirty-first of December. Had she moved back to America? Had she known he was going to be here?

He, as well as the other mates, had been asked to perform that night after the annual countdown they were to present. Harry had agreed to the proposition and before he'd even had the chance to register what was going on, his bags were packed and he was on the plane to America from England. Not that he minded, really. Although American liquor was pretty weak to what he'd been used to.

Anyway, he doesn't know why she could be found here. He attempts to recall what she told him she wanted to do after college, but that'd mean he'd have to stretch far back into his memories. She'd always been too good for him, anyway. And that's why he hadn't written her or phoned her or texted her (back). Not that he'd tell her. But seeing her now – all smiles and matured with a good career – Niall Horan couldn't help the curiosity eating away at him.

She'd always been hardworking, he remembers. Always strived for what she set her mind on. He admired that about her. Still does. Real pretty, too. Marguerite had been the closest friend he'd had before his audition for the X Factor. Hell, she was the reason he sang _So Sick_; it'd been her favorite. He remembers the rhythm of the song echoing along the corridor of her house before he'd enter her bedroom door and interrupt her homework session by propping himself beside her and start fiddling with her hair. He remembers serenading her on her thirteenth birthday. She'd heard him singing ever since she was eight, but he hadn't voiced publically until she encouraged him too.

She'd been the very reason he auditioned and made his way here.

He stops himself from going too far down this nostalgic road before plunging a quick shot down his throat. He can't be distracted. Especially since he's performing in about an hour or two. He tries to move his attention to other things.

The roof they're on is illuminated with flashing colours of turquoise and magenta. There's also the fluorescence of the stars above them, but no one seems to be paying attention to the sky, just yet. It's pretty, the rooftop. It's high, overshadowing everything else, and heights have always given him an even bigger sense of freedom. Yet, ironically, he feels glued to his place. Either he hasn't had enough to drink – Liam would surely disagree to that, counting the cocktails he'd accepted earlier – _or_ it's because of _her_.

And just like that, his mind is back on the girl, parallel to his view.

She dances away from whatever conversation she's having with the people around her and because it happens to be the works of destiny or fate or just coincidental unfairness (because _really_, of all people to see, he hadn't expected to see her and – _shit_ – he was not prepared for confrontation), she looks across the rooftop and her eyes are on him. Her mouth opens, just slightly, and it'd be a downright lie if he claimed he didn't notice the way her lips parted.

If he thought he'd been frozen before, he's a fucking glacier now. He doesn't know what comes over him – perhaps guilt, a bit of anxiety, the banging under his ribcage. So he holds their locked gaze, and even from this distance, she's got these eyes, stunningly crazy with the pretty rim of green that's burning into his and oddly enough, he feels like he's suddenly melting.

He watches her excuse herself and start toward him.

"_Ni_!" she says, the nickname doing wonders to his state of reminiscence. Only she called him that.

And right at that moment, as he inhales the breezy night air with this stunning doll of an old best friend making her way to him, he realizes that this night will definitely not be going as plan.

/

When she first laid eyes on him, he'd already been looking at her, and as cliché as it might sound, the air is gone and she feels like she's suffocating – like her dress has suddenly shrunk and was _continuing_ to tighten, or the flute of wine held by her nifty fingers has been poisoned to the core. There's that same look in his eyes that she'd fell completely head over heels for in primary school and there's this odd stirring below her chest along with this heated intensity that dizzies her.

Maybe it's the alcohol consuming her and giving her this fluttering wave of confidence, but she soon finds herself in front of him, taking in the view of a boy she's known all her life.

"Meems!" she hears the disbelief in his tone when he greets her with the childish nickname she hasn't heard since high school.

She realizes several things; like how tall he'd gotten, how deep his voice was now, how his eyes were still the same, oceanic blue they'd been since she's last seen the pair. She catches herself being entranced and stops herself from getting too ahead of herself. The night could end very, very wrong if she didn't watch herself. So she tries to remember all the cons, all the stupid things the prick in front of her had done to her for years. She tries to remember the hatred she had for him just a day ago. She tries to stop her anger from melting into something else entirely—

But then there he is, right before her with those goddamn eyes and that goddamn smile and all the hate that had ever grown evaporates and leaves her out of breath.

_(don't sound like an idiot don't sound like an idiot don't_ –)

"So… What've you been up to?"

(—_too late_)

_Nice going, Mimi_. It's a stupid question – she knows this immediately after it escapes past her lips. She berates herself at her stupidity and the irony of it all, but becomes distracted at the way he cracks a laugh. _Everyone_ knew what Niall Horan had been up to since X Factor.

"Oh, you know, just performing with my band," he answers all cavalier and smug. "And you? How've you been?"

She wants to ask why he gives a damn, why he promised he'd keep in touch on his way to stardom, yet never phoned or returned her messages. What had she done wrong?

She forces a smile that reads happy and restrains, "I've been great. I—um, I'm engaging in law."

"Really? You'd make a great lawyer," he genuinely replies, placing his empty champagne glass down on a server's tray as she walks by. "Always thought you would be."

The eighteen year old nods curtly, "I'm surprised you remembered." She finishes the remainder of her cup, allowing her eyes to roam his body up and down from the transparency of the glass. She attempts a side of nonchalance and adds a bit glumly, "It's been, like, four years."

"Five."

Eyes flicker from the intricate pattern of his tie to his softened, water blue orbs, and she really hopes he couldn't hear the staccato hammering beneath her chest.

Marguerite absolutely hates how easy it was for him to get her like this, all flustered with blood rushing and her pulse racing. But of course he'd have this affect on her — holding the title of her first love. She was so young at the time, and she was probably just seen as a sister to him. The thought doesn't sit well with her, and it's as if he notices the slight change in her facial expression when her eyebrows furrow at the idea, because he erupts her hesitation and drowns her in his accent.

(that she missed so, _so_ much)

"You alright, Meems?"

(_no, far from it—_)

"Yeah, I just spaced out a bit, sorry."

She shakes her head and fixes her straight brown locks behind her shoulder, in her successful attempt in causing his gaze to boyishly (tipsily) plunge along the curves her dress accentuates since her eyes had left his. She'd be confident enough to show him what he's missed out on; she wasn't that silly, thirteen year old anymore. Marguerite finishes her fixing up and he finishes his checking out, and when blue meets green and Niall's not hesitant to ask her for another drink, she smirks. She thinks _why the hell not_? It could only ease the buildup of frustration and lighten the heavy atmosphere around them.

She'll be like him – charming and coy and cavalier and confident. She'll, at least, act like she's alright, until the vodka makes sure she is.

(it'll help her forget, even if only for a little while)

/

"Let's pretend that I never left – I spent my teenage years back in Ireland and it's the time that we, rebellious children, stole from my dad's liquor cabinet," Niall states, as they link their arms and engulf their mouths in a strong shot. The more drinks they have, the wider their smiles become; and he slowly forgets the guilt and she slowly forgets the pain.

They both know all they have is now, so why not enjoy their time?

The sky darkens, the music blasts louder, and the fruity-medicinal essence of coconut rum roams the air, and he doesn't notice any of it. All his attention is on the girl in front of him, sitting on the exotically inspired barstool beside his, with her dashing smile and jaded eyes. Niall learns that she recently moved to this stunning city for school. He cracks a joke about how Ireland's given her their known drinking strength and she could only agree. And he knows her smile is real at this very moment, not like earlier, when they'd met earlier on. It's in the way it reaches her eyes and her lips are unshaken. He savors this image of her, older and happy.

It's not until she's asking the bartender for god-knows-what when Zayn interrupts the blonde's pinnacle of thoughts, snapping the boy back into reality with the breath of nicotine blown against the side of his face.

"Who's this pretty little thing?" the Malik boy asks, a cigarette held between his teeth. He shuffles out his lighter and ignites the flame shooting an obvious smirk in Niall's direction.

Her eyes flicker from her mixed beverage to the other band member and initiates for the sake of friendly introductions, "Marguerite Marie."

It lasts two seconds, but she's quick to notice the way Zayn's finger accidentally crushes the cigarette before removing it from his mouth entirely. His brow rises and Niall nudges his friend's lower abdomen with his elbow in hope that Zayn will keep quiet.

He doesn't.

A puff of smoke pours out in a small, milky wave before he splutters, "So you're the famous 'Mimi', are ye'?"

Her stare darts to Niall in question, the hint of a smile in need to paint her face. He takes a long, cold, refreshing down of beer, hoping that it'll cool down the heat in his cheeks. And to his misfortune, this hesitation only allows the drunken Zayn to continue, oblivious to his friend's embarrassment.

"Talks a grand deal 'bout 'cha," he informs her. He chuckles and steals the Corona from Niall's grasp before he sets it back down on the marble counter. Taking a heavenly swig from the bottle and beginning his trail off to Louis, he leaves the two with words directed at the flustered blonde after he had shoved him off, "Don't be so cruel, mate! Only telling 'er the truth."

When Niall's cerulean pools are finished stalling themselves by taking his sweet time to move back to her stare by sweeping them across the limelight of the dance floor, her brow is arched in patience. She circles the rim of her glass with a manicured finger to occupy herself from doing something she may regret.

"Talking about me, huh?"

He bites his lip when he smiles, shakes his head and avoids those electric eyes of hers. "Look, Meems, be honest with me." Both her eyebrows rise while she waits for him to continue. "How many of my performances have you actually seen?"

"Besides X Factor?" Marguerite clarifies, nervously toying with the hem of her dress.

"Besides X Factor."

There's hesitation on her part, debating if she should be truthful or play it coy. Unwilling to voice out anything false while staring into sky-like orbs, she admits, "One."

She hadn't watched any of his band's concerts – on television or on the internet. She, actually, avoided listening to anything One Direction-related, minus the songs that would blast at any setting she happened to be at. She couldn't stand being reminded of him.

He laughs halfheartedly, seemingly amused, "Which one?"

She could have sworn she had Irish blood, because by now she'd been sobering up too quickly for her liking. She couldn't tell if the pink on his neck was a part of his flush or if it had been the alcohol. Possibly a collaboration of both. Either way, there's still a warmth in her stomach and identical redness on her cheeks. She would like to blame the alcohol.

"My thirteenth birthday party," she declares and her gaze is unwavering at how his expression transitions from that smug façade to something unreadable to her. It's almost sad, discouraged – as if her words had hurt him. She hadn't intended to make him feel that way, but the irony didn't fail to give him a taste of his own medicine.

/

There's something in him that plummets as soon as that fragment escapes her lips. The guilt is back, and Niall realizes that sobriety hadn't mattered to begin with. He had to fix things on his own.

…But that isn't possible without the help of the girl who'd been eyeing him intently, suddenly propping her heels against the floor and standing, as if she'd had enough. Her drink is finished and the smile on her face is false. Funny how it had been five goddamn years and he could _still_ see through this girl.

"I should probably get back to my friend; she's—um, an acquaintance of the host of this party," Marguerite rambles, looking around through the crowd of people. Uneasily, she adds, "She's the reason I'm here."

"So, you wouldn't have come if you knew my band was going to be here?" Niall awkwardly asks, grabbing her hand in his attempt to have her stay, just a little bit longer.

Marguerite slips her fingers out of his grip and adjusts the straps of her dress, chirping a lighthearted joke, "I was just poorly informed."

"You'll watch me tonight, right?" he asks so naively (and she's suddenly reminded of when he was young and fifteen and so very cute). When she doesn't respond, he already knows the answer.

She presses her lips against him, a featherlight peck on his candy-pink cheek. It's a friendly kiss, sweet and innocent; like the ones he'd be forced to give fans for their pictures. It's innocuous, it's nothing, really, but why on earth did he feel so out of control? Stiffened and head unclear, it's like he's restraining his instinctive reflex to grab her by the front of that dress that clings to her like a second skin and—

And then her back is to him, exposed because of that goddamn dress as she makes her way through the fiasco of dancing girls.

/

It's her biggest decision.

Having seen him after all this time to find out he had no idea what he wanted. He may have looked grown up, but she could tell there was much maturing that needed to be done. If Zayn's allegations were true – and Niall Horan, the boy she's been in love with since she was _seven_ and a newcomer to Ireland – missed her and talked of her and thought about her, why couldn't he just pack up the courage and call her, write her, visit her – or be _honest_ with her?

Why couldn't he be famous _and_ keep her? And if it had been a one-option deal for him, the understanding that he'd chosen fame over her makes her heart fall to her feet.

Leaving him with a kiss is the simplest way out.

It's a way to disregard all the previous feelings – the mixture of love and hate and the lust in between. It's not the closure she hoped for as she grew older and he grew famous, but it's something. And that ought to count.

So she walks away.

She walks away with a strut those five inch too long high heels have the pleasure of giving her and her chin high, making old predicaments come to an end so she can start fresh. The sixty second countdown begins behind her when she exits the rooftop and starts to descend the empty staircase. She does not look back.

And when she hears the door to the stairway open, and padding footsteps come trudging behind her in a hurry to make their way downstairs, most likely to get to the nearest floor, she thinks it's some floozy who couldn't handle the booze she's intoxicated herself with. She doesn't care enough to look.

It isn't until she's pushed – _physically, abruptly pushed_ – against the corridor's wall and she has to grab onto this person's arm for support (and if she hadn't her balance would have downright murdered her) when she reacts.

"What the fu—," she starts, readjusting her position to have a sturdier stance on the uneven steps to view the person that had practically attacked her as she let go of her hold.

Then her gaze moves from her uncomfortably placed feet to the dark pants of the man in front of her, to his clean white dress shirt and a familiar, intricately-patterned tie – to those fiery eyes of crystalline blue. They burned against hers, all luminescent and warm and bright even in this dimly lit hall. Before she had the chance to say anything further, he pushes his forefinger to her lips, smearing a bit of red on his skin. He forces her to be silent, and with this easy contact, her resolution is fucked.

"You've done enough talking on your part," Niall says, and she's distracted by how one of his legs are placed between hers. They're standing in the corridor of a staircase and already their limbs are tangled together and breaths are uneven. "You've done a lot on your part. And I've done nothing."

Their eyes are leveled, since one of his feet had been balancing on a step below hers, the other, obliviously on the step her foot had missed (his knee inches away from her hemline, which had _not_ been modest, at all) when her back had hit against the cold wall. And what's _more_ distracting – what's keeping her from shoving him away so she could maneuver out of there, rather – is the passion fruit tingling on his breath, ghosting against her lips as he talks.

"Marguerite," Niall deadpans, and this is the first time he has used her real name in a decade, they both know. She hears the rest of his band mates counting down from fifteen outside the closed door, and she also knows he should be there with them. He's being paid to do that stupid countdown. His eyes are darker and his voice is raspier when he murmurs, "I was never enough. And you were always more than enough."

He's fumbling with words, she can tell. It's all in his eyes and the way they shift down the (very short) length of her dress in pure nervousness.

"You were too good for me," he whispers, view downcast. His eyes roam upward as he finishes, "Still are. But I don't care."

And neither does she.

It's her turn to find out that this night has definitely not gone as plan.

/

When he kisses her in this poorly-lit stairway, it's the stroke of midnight, and her body reacts with his like magnetism. Lips embed, mouths move, hips buckle, and eyes shut. It's something they've both been waiting for.

He shifts his leg upward a step, rising the hem of her dress dangerously high and her fingers get lost in locks of blonde as his lips swim past her jaw and draw down her neck. His breath tingles against her skin and her voice hitches in a sound he'll never forget. The way his hands firmly grasp her thighs to hold her up against the wall does no justice to steady her breathing, either.

Her legs wrap around the lower of his back and their chests are pressing together, inseparable as they pant in need. She moves one of her hands from his hair to his chin, lifting it just enough until she pushes her lips back on his and tastes passion fruit, alcohol, and a mint that refreshed his tongue only a few minutes before. He thinks she tastes fucking delicious, and between kisses he'll throatily hoarse out a tangled breath and words to match.

"You don't know how long I've wanted this," he says against her ear, and fireworks are exploding outside and in her stomach.

There is no guilt when he leads her down the rest of the staircase and along the hotel's golden hallway.

There is no pain when she loosens his tie by a single, assertive pull of her hand and starts to unbutton his shirt in the middle of the elevator.

He grits his teeth and she bites her lip, purposefully distracting him when he's struggling to open his room door with the way her crafty fingers walk down his chest. When they're finally inside, he fishes out the privacy sign and lazily hangs it on the knob outside, not giving a single fuck over what the rest of the band would think. They'd understand, anyway.

/

At four in the morning, they're both still awake and their clothing is long forgotten.

Niall's running his fingers down the curve of her back, swirling in sporadic shapes while she hums to a song he hadn't sang since his audition.

"'Ey, Meems," he tiredly slurs. She turns to face him, stunning eyes half-lidded and hazy. Her milk chocolate hair is sprawled all around her pillow like sunrays. Her makeup is slightly smudged, and her lips are still a bold crimson. Her legs are tangled with his underneath the thin white blanket draping over the both of them. He thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful.

"Yeah?" Marguerite drawls out.

He listens to her light breaths while he feels the thrumming beneath his ribs. She waits, closing her eyes in a happy kind of exhaustion. "I've always loved you, you know."

She doesn't respond, but she _does_ smile and entwines their fingers, and with that, he already knows the answer.

**x**

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**fin.**


End file.
